Allure of Clandestine Skin and other poems


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Allure of Clandestine Skin

I adore your clandestine skin:
an autumnal dawn;
all the silhouette-clutter-Prometheus-Venus-metropolis-marionette-menagerie
held therein.

Your misplaced words which ramble down your tongue—

Your coral reefs and colored rugs—

Your supple gears which grind me to bed—

Your wind-up puppets, ductile and doll-eyed—

Your pretty elbows, wooden earrings, and blood offerings

to stray gods of wanderlust, hunger, and thirst—

Your lungs,

glitter with carbon jewels and oxygen—

with your sea-vessel charms,
which drift out from shore
as us poor sailors plead, with geraniums and stargazer lilies placed at your doorstep—
Your placating posture and brick-wall reminders—
Your open window: concealed behind patterned fabric curtains prowls a languid tiger—
The boiler in the basement of your little wet belly,
that speaks in a squirrel’s idiom—
The sparrow in your head that sings for its food—
Your carnival thoughts, which tilt, whirl, and spin—
Your warm room— Your worship heart and warship splendor,
which you wear about your hips like an ornate leather belt—
Your sex, your scent, your pillow humor and primitive drums—
Your tender legion armed and adorned with plumes and bells—
Your insults and canine teeth tossed off in jest—
Your worry and wear,
strung up from your sleeve—
Your intellect— Your homemade armada— Your shoulders— Your more—

I’ll bring you a kiss

tomorrow morning,

wrapped in a lavender napkin;

as if it were a little newborn mammal.

A Regular Don Swan

Sex, sex
Let’s Fuck, fuck
I’ve fucked the fat girls no one wanted
I’ve fucked the crazies with dead best friends
Roof jumpers at sixteen ’cus of Cobain
and divorced parents
I’ve fucked the virgins
who feared ubiquitous Jesus
would sigh and nod
every time a finger went searching
within them
I’ve fucked true-love on hotel carpets
legs bent on shoulders, toes curled
I’ve fucked the mutants and apes
who hate their father
who was never there
to discipline
I’ve fucked the alcoholics who think too much
I’ve fucked the amphetamine birds who talk too much
I’ve fucked the ones with sweet centers that I sometimes miss
I’ve fucked car parts and television sets
I’ve fucked the bastards of Babylon with ornament men
I’ve fucked the little girls
dressed as unhappy Jackie-O
I’ve fucked the ruins of empires
and gestating universes
I’ve fucked the blood from the womb
I’ve fucked broken windows
where below drunk teenagers
make water by a dumpster
I’ve fucked love-true ‘till lungs struggle
then fucked once more
I’ve fucked baby-doll beauties with eyes open, dressed in Polaroid evening gowns
I’ve fucked punch-drunk dawn at wits end
I’ve fucked the moon in a puddle
of saltwater
I’ve fucked myself with burnt bridges and happy endings
I’ve fucked the stranger atop a metropolis
while buildings watched with stiff shoulders

Remember when I had you girl

We fucked the frozen streets

Remember when I had you girl

We tongued blood sugar

We tasted meat


Were the only carnivores in Eden

Low Romance

Masturbating by her bedside;
the odd ways in which we worship.

There is a luster where the skin
is caressed by alabaster
shafts of moonlight filtered through and
segmented by the wooden slats
of Venetian blinds: hung low, closed.

It is not a vagary of
lust, ebullient in the guts, that
impels him to pull and to tug,
as if he’s some mechanical
animal driven on by gears
and a power source of which he
has no comprehension, only
servile and vehement with blind
obedience to nature’s urge.

No, it is not simply the sight
of her inner thighs—supple as
an infant’s breath, smooth as the saints
tranquil and immobile within
the echo-chamber corridors
of museums and cathedrals—
those legs splayed out in her slumber
like a whispered invitation
within the clandestine comforts
of a bedroom adumbrated
(barely) by the gossamer blue
light lilting, resembling the hem
of a vast gown assembled and
stitched with the most delicate threads:
the work of intricate tailors…

Lilting down from hips and ankles
of celestial bodies caught
up in their endless revolving
dance in early-morning dark, where
stars wink indiscriminately,
the effulgence—both shed and spun,
as if wan foam sprayed from the sea—
illuminates the hidden slope:
dark mystery under the shroud
of white cotton undergarment.

Panties warm, moist with natural
secretion: ebb-flow of woman.

The sacred hill with cleft and ridge
at its summit: tender to touch.

Thunder and lightning in Eden.

Fruit burns below the abdomen.

But no, not this compels him to
Onanistic maneuvers of
repetition until release.

No, not the hair on the pillow,
nor the bend at the pink elbow.

Not the pale breasts with gentle heave
and recline from respiration
while dreaming: each panorama
a gold coin wrapped in lavender
silks and linen floating serene
in amniotic fluid, swayed
and taken by the calm currents,
borne on by prostrate synapses
conversing in their argot of
mellifluous tongue, hardly heard.

No, not her breasts with their small pinch
of skin at their perihelion.

No, it is not the toes curled from her feet:
slid from socks and kicked free of sheets.

Neither is it the plush eyelids:
gently closed, much like the petals
on the bud of a newborn rose,
young thorns on the stem still pliant.

They serve as a counterpoint to
her parted lips: as if flowers
under the first warm morning sun,
after the winter-frost departs.

But no, still not the impetus.

The labyrinth analogies and
metaphors for the elaborate
architecture and the complex
interiors of towers and
dungeons that comprise our desires
may be excavated even
endlessly, and still you’ll never
once encounter the Minotaur
that does reside in the center.

However, it need be known that
this seemingly base outburst from
his vile, reptile brain derives from
the fecund territories of

Voyeur eye and commitment to
monotonous gratification
can be likened to the actions
of a devout monk who thumbs at
each subsequent bead upon
a rosary necklace—over
and over—to ensure his prayers
are both correct and understood.

Each jerk of his arm is done
with ardor in heart and organs.

A cleric before an altar,
pretending to sip the chalice.

The muscles along his spine spasm.

Semen spills to the wooden floor.

Masturbating by her bedside;
the odd ways in which we worship.

One Response to Allure of Clandestine Skin and other poems

  1. Mike Fig says:

    don swan is one of your best bobby –